


forgive (don't forget)

by cloudburst



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: M/M, a lot of shit happens in this, after they find meridian, i guess? ?, lots of stuff about kadara being hot lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 02:36:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10799937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudburst/pseuds/cloudburst
Summary: A hiss from Scott—between his teeth, the furrowing of his sweat laden brow nearly swallowing the sound. The words come as quickly as a gunshot. "You think I don't know that?"God,Reyes hopes he knows what he's doing. They both do.





	forgive (don't forget)

**Author's Note:**

> this is rated m bc ryder thinks about sex and says fu*ked. didn't want to rate it t w/ that. 
> 
> so cw: vague mentions of sex and there's a sentence about bl00d

It's sticky—and red—tangible, the kind of heat that enters through the skin and seeps through pores; it's the type of heat where old, human women would have remarked: _"My momma could have fried an egg on this sidewalk."_ And the waves are not of an ocean, but of fire, drawing groans from even the most composed of Kadara's weapons dealers—slouched behind counters, shielding themselves from forsaken suns. The crimson rolls off of the planet's inhabitants in languid fashion, for even the heat doesn't wish to move more quickly than it needs. The assembled Roekarr in the Badlands swear they've adapted, all the while cursing the Kadaran climate. Members of the Collective are cloaked in the shadows of the slums, hoping desperately to hide from the crimson tide. And Kralla's Song is full of irritable colonists and outlaws—for the heat will do that to people. It is summer, after all. 

Everyone is itching for a fight, and she can feel it in the air—thick with an unspoken rage. But objectively, Sara Ryder is forced to recognize that Kadara is safe—or at the very least she herself is safe, sunlight and heat pouring through the bar windows, sticking her to the place she's adopted in front of Umi, the disgruntled bartender. And Sara is left praying for a breeze that will never come as the Asari pours her another whiskey—neat: a habit she'd picked up from her brother. Sara thinks as she takes an unhurried swig; Kadara is as safe as a planet of criminals can be. Though, she may not leave unscathed—even if no living creature lays a finger on her—for her armor seems to trap her in molten lava, form fitted. The heat itself may do her in, and Scott would have no clue. 

She leans a little closer to the bar—one hand against the surface, the other propping up her chin as she shifts, one half of her face cloaked in shadow, the other bathed in white light. She supposes she understands the reason her brother advocates for these people; she understands why he seeks their return—the restoration of their rights in the eyes of the Initiative: their right to establish a home on Meridian. Sara can see they are not all bad, though her brother's current company is questionable. 

As always, she just hopes he knows what he's doing.

* * *

It's sticky—and red—tangible, the kind of heat that enters through the skin and seeps through pores. Scott Ryder cannot find it in himself to care, his skin slick, body heavy. His back is against the white sheet—molten lava burning a hole in his chest, inciting forest fires as lips brush against his collarbones, moving across his abdomen. Hands grip his wrists. Lips are back at his neck. _Are they?_ He can't follow everything, is too far gone with each action—and he melts into the mattress beneath him with a sigh. 

Scott cannot say he is cloaked in shadow, though it is black in the room. Scott Ryder _revels_ in the darkness—revels in the hands upon his thighs, his arched back accompanying the movement of short nails, digging to create crescent moons, completing solar systems of different colors already kissed and sucked onto his skin. Scott Ryder _revels_ in his cause, which _presently_ , is to get fucked. 

* * *

It's sticky—and red—tangible, the kind of heat that enters through the skin and seeps through pores. Reyes Vidal cannot find it in himself to care. The rebel sect of the Collective must be dealt with swiftly; he cannot let them mar his secret identity's reputation—cannot allow them to negatively impact Kadaran leadership's improved station with the Nexus. For that would have a ripple effect: on Scott Ryder's endgame and his own. He feels, he _knows_ , that Ryder is so close to securing rights for those smugglers, those mercenaries, those killers—who he has come to consider _his_ people. He won't let these men damage that—but whether his reasons are selfish or not, Reyes does not know. And he does not care to. 

He then turns to Ryder, standing next to him, their hands raised in display to the blistering sun and the rebels before them. Easy. They take a single step forward—weapons laid carefully on the ground in front of them. 

"These men are what's standing between Kadaran exiles and a home on Meridian." 

A hiss from Scott—between his teeth, the furrowing of his sweat laden brow nearly swallowing the sound. The words come as quickly as a gunshot. "You think I don't know that?"

 _God,_ Reyes hopes he knows what he's doing. They both do.

* * *

It's sticky—and red—tangible, the kind of heat that enters through the skin and seeps through pores. Though right now, the crimson no longer escapes from the sun, but seeps from a hole in his abdomen. It's blurry; it's hot; is it raining? _No, I'm on Kadara._ It's blurry, he thinks. It's hot, he thinks. Is it raining? He asks himself. _No, I'm on Kadara._ The sand is red; he barely registers. But he's right. It is a deep color—the heat manifesting as an ocean of blood beneath his armor. 

There's yelling near him. He cannot identify the source—yet they sound distressed—reaches an arm to help them, but that is all he can manage. His arm, just like his eyelids, are weighed down by the oppressive sun—by the hole in his right side. 

_"Ryder, vitals are crashing."_

The sun does not offer him the reprieve of shadow. For once, there is no escaping this. 

_Who is Ryder?_

* * *

It's sticky—and red—tangible, the kind of heat that enters through the skin and seeps through pores. The waves are not of crimson blood, but of the anger radiating from Sara Ryder. She can feel it boiling beneath her worry—her distress that is the cool blue to her rage. 

Scott Ryder never knew what he was doing when it came to Reyes Vidal. As always, her hopes to the contrary had been pointless. 

_"They're fixing him up at Ditaeon."_

_"It'll be okay, Sara."_

The words intended as comfort go to die at the back of her mind—smothered by the sand, and the thought of her brother bleeding eternally onto it.

* * *

It's sticky—and red—tangible, the kind of heat that enters through the skin and seeps through pores. Reyes Vidal cannot find it in himself to care. He clasps the unmoving hand with both of his own, ignoring the nervous, sweaty sheen across his palm as a result; he rests his forehead against the barely moving chest—bending over from his station seated at the Pathfinder's Ditaeon bedside. 

_"What did you let happen to him?"_ The words had hurtled toward him from the outpost doctor's mouth. Yet, they were not a question. It was an accusation. And Reyes Vidal stood accused. If he had kept a closer eye on those men—if he hadn't asked Ryder with him—if he hadn't— _if he hadn't—_

Scott would remark that Reyes would be the one he'd dragged across the Badlands to Ditaeon. He'd argue that he would take Reyes' place any day. But the blame still fell heated and heavy upon Reyes' chest—crushing weight destroying him. He would not rest until Scott Ryder opened his eyes and told him to stop looking so dreary—that he'd hoped to wake up to Reyes regaling him with stories of his time as a pilot, times only Scott would ever know the details of. 

And it is not because Reyes did not want to rest, but because he could not.

* * *

It's sticky—and red—tangible, the kind of heat that enters through the skin and seeps through pores. And the first thing Scott thinks is: warm. The second: Reyes. The third: ouch. 

He opens his eyes to find Reyes Vidal—palms of his hands braced against his forehead, elbows digging into Scott's bedside. Ryder stares for a moment, half of Reyes' face bathed in the shadow of dusk—light from the window not sufficient to keep the entire room lit. He can see the regret in the furrow of Vidal's brows, the worry in the set of his shoulders. So he pauses, before speaking. 

"Reyes."

It's enough for him to snap to attention, hands grasping for Scott's. 

"You're awake.

_"I'm awake."_

A new galaxy forms—light years away, as Reyes' lips meet Scott's forehead. Ryder's eyes close, and Vidal exhales his relief. 

__

* * *

It's sticky—and red—tangible, the kind of heat that enters through the skin and seeps through pores. 

As always, Ryder will forgive. 

Reyes will not forget. 

**Author's Note:**

> lemme know what ya think (: (please)


End file.
